‘Mexico 86’ Review: Diego Luna Scores in a Lightweight Look Behind the Scenes of a World Cup Campaign

According To The variety With the FIFA World Cup literally kicking off next week in the U.S., Canada and Mexico — an unprecedented triple-nation collaboration that makes the last of those countries the first in history to host the soccer tournament a third time — Netflix‘s release of “Mexico 86” is opportunistically timed. Unfolding largely off the pitch, Gabriel Ripstein‘s loosely fact-based comedy (“Some of these things did happen,” an opening title card assures us) delves irreverently into the allegedly iffy backroom dealings that made Mexico the first two-time World Cup host 40 years ago. In the process, it prompts us to idly wonder if much has changed since then: Not itself in the grip of soccer fever, the film is a droll reminder of the sometimes ugly workings behind the beautiful game. Not that “Mexico 86” is any kind of ruthless exposé. Buoyed by the scrappy, insistent charisma of a mustachioed Diego Luna as Martín de la Torre, the man chiefly responsible for securing his country its second World Cup gig before his inevitable downfall, Ripstein’s film mostly portrays his story as a bit of a lark. De la Torre is shown lying and bribing his way into FIFA’s good graces, but with a roguish underdog energy that we’re invited to root for: He’s just playing the same game as everyone else, it is implied, but with fewer resources and greater obstacles, he just plays it a little smarter than the rest. Until, well, he doesn’t. We first encounter De la Torre as a disgruntled employee in the Mexican Football Federation in the early 1980s, harboring lofty dreams for his country’s international soccer-world profile, and frustrated by his superiors’ lack of comparable ambition. When Colombia is forced to pull out of hosting the 1986 World Cup for political and economic reasons, De la Torre spots an opportunity — and secures an interview on national TV to denounce his bosses for not seizing it with both hands. It’s a seemingly suicidal career move, but his chutzpah catches the eye of broadcast bigwig (and Club América chairman) Emilio Azcárraga (the great Daniel Giménez Cacho, always an asset), who promptly promotes him to the head of the federation. The film’s paciest and most enjoyable stretch details the somewhat corrupt charm offensive that De la Torre put on at a FIFA conference in Zurich to determine the replacement host, which ultimately saw Mexico win more support than supposed frontrunners the United States. It’s a victory that comes sooner in proceedings than expected, and “Mexico 86” never quite regains that zip and momentum — though our hero obviously has plenty to do as the tournament approaches. Away from the office, his illicit relationship with his downstairs neighbor Susana (a sparky Karla Souza) puts paid to his marriage, before it, too, is compromised by his chronic aversion to honesty. Even this subplot, however, doesn’t douse the film’s affection for its protagonist. Though he projects the character’s slightly disreputable air, Luna is sprightly and engaging enough that the film largely gets away with its chipper boys-will-be-boys approach. At a certain point, however, the tapdance routine feels dramatically counter-productive. The film elides so many details and specifics and conflicts as it breezes through over a decade of presumably knotty sports business in a blithe 90-odd minutes, it doesn’t leave you with much to hold onto: Is the point that soccer is rotten, or that its’s unifying enough for the rot not to matter, or simply that you’ve got to love Diego Luna? “Mexico 86” moves quickly enough that we don’t think too pressingly about such things in the moment. Ripstein’s second feature as director doesn’t have the grit or urgency of his 2015 debut “600 Miles” — a stark cartel drama that was Mexico’s international Oscar submission that year — but it confirms his skills as a smooth and confident stylist: The film’s sandily desaturated lensing, aptly worn period production design and kitsch Latin pop soundtrack cues are all perfectly coordinated, and it moves to a rhythm that reflects De la Torre’s own slick, slippery charm. As a study of how the World Cup sausage is made, the film could go deeper and dirtier; as a crowdpleaser about the business of crowdpleasing, it’s more or less on point.